


Home to Sadieville

by AvaJune



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Fluff and Smut, But no graphic violence, F/M, Happy Ending, House Baratheon is Political, House Bolton is Illegal, House Stark is Judicial, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Past Joffrey Baratheon/Sansa Stark, Profanity, Ramsay is his own warning, Scottish Sandor, Stalking, TV Canonish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-01-23 05:59:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12500372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaJune/pseuds/AvaJune
Summary: "For fuck's sake, she was like blood in the water to all the sharks in the world. He wondered if she'd ever be safe. He wished he could keep her whole somehow, but he knew part of that yearning was selfish. Part of him just wanted to have her for his own."Sansa has been running for too long, and now the last number left in her phone is for dire emergencies only. And that number is Sandor's.





	1. Caochan

**Author's Note:**

> Pinterest Board: https://www.pinterest.com/avajunewrites/home-to-sadieville/

It all started with a completely unexpected text message at 11pm on a Tuesday.

Unknown Number: im sorry to bug you, but...girl from my building just went in the squad, ur in her ICE on the phone?

Sandor Clegane: This girl have a name?

Unknown Number: idk it, she moved in few wks ago...fb says Sansa Beag-Eòin

Unknown Number: ???

Sandor Clegane: I knew a Sansa, but it's been a long minute. Do you have a picture of some kind?

Unknown Number: yeah, brb

(Multimedia Message Received)

Unknown Number: u get it?

Sandor Clegane: Aye, that's her. Did you try her kin?

Unknown Number: just u in the emergency #s

Sandor Clegane: Where's this hospital?

Unknown Number: George E. Weems Memorial Hospital

Sandor Clegane: *Caochan, what state is that?

Unknown Number: fl

Sandor Clegane: Well, fuck.

 

An uncomfortable, overpriced flight and 10 hours later saw Sandor standing outside the hospital room that supposedly held the Little Bird. He didn't really know yet, because he was too much of a coward to open the door and make sure. He wasn't sure what would be worse, finding out that she was behind that door or finding out that she wasn't.

It had been 3 years since Sandor had even heard her name spoken aloud. But she wasn't Sansa Beag-Eòin, she was Sansa Stark, and she looked a bit different than the picture this girl's neighbor had sent. For one thing, her hair was dyed strawberry blond in the picture. In truth, it was probably dyed regular blond and her natural fire was just too strong to completely vanish. Her face was fuller than it had been 3 years ago, but her eyes remained the same striking blue as before. At the very beginning of her relationship with 'Joff', her smile had been open and wide. She was optimistic and naive, shallow and easily manipulated. By the end, she was cold as ice and twice as hazardous. She had thinned out during her 2 years as the personal chew toy of the little blond sadist, making her face more angular. There were almost no more smiles and her eyes were so sharp they could cut through to the soul of a man. The only time it slipped was with Sandor in the desperate aftermath of Joffrey's tyranny, and then she'd become a beautiful and broken thing to behold.

Senator Robert Baratheon had hired Sandor as a bodyguard for his wife Cersei during his second election. The bitch was all pretty face and ugly words, and she had finally told her husband that Sandor, with his half face and dirty mouth, was a terrible choice in bodyguard for her. She was right, too, because Sandor couldn't fucking stand her. Then he was transferred to Joffrey, Cersei's brother Jaime took his old post, and within months Sansa and Joffrey were an item.

At first, the girl was scared of Sandor. She wouldn't look him in the eye or speak directly to him, and he preferred it that way. She was stunningly beautiful, but she was so young and so shallow, he was more than happy to watch her jiggle walking around in her bikini by the pool and never actually speak to her. But the honeymoon period ended around the 6-month mark and it really only got worse from there. Sandor was Joffrey's main guard, but there was also Trant in the evenings and as Joffrey got more vicious, Trant got more excited. All of a sudden, it was more than the humiliation and verbal abuse and Sandor could only protect her so much.

Slowly, so very slowly, Sansa started to smile at him. Small, sad smiles, but he was the only one who got them. She lost the shallowness, grew up way too fast, and she talked to him every chance she got. She still never stood too close to him, always tentative to invade his space, but she was with him as often as she could manage. She told him lots of things, weird and random things, and he listened and rarely told her anything at all. He did talk to her when he attempted to convince her she needed to go, that it would only get worse. But Sansa just smiled sadly and stayed...so he did too. Gods, but he wanted to leave the fucking Baratheons and never go back. But if he did, he would be abandoning her to Joff and Trant and without him to temper them, he was sure they'd hurt her in a way she couldn't heal from. The day he scooped her off the ground, bloodied and beaten into a stupor for finally smacking Joffrey back, he wrapped her shivering body in the old quilt his grandmother had made him before she died and started planning. He had to get her out of there, and he had to get out too. He knew he couldn't watch it anymore, not even if she begged him to.

The day he put her on a plane back to Winterfell Estate was the last day he'd seen or talked to her. He never told her how he felt about her, never asked anything of her, but he wanted so much. She didn't belong in his world, and she needed to get away from him as much as Joffrey, even if she didn't know it. She had mixed feelings, he knew. She was warmed that he wanted her safe, fiercely angry with him having contacted her Dad and brother, and something else that he couldn't quite identify.

The last thing she said to him, before getting on the plane, were words he had heard over and over in the years following. They echoed in his dreams and in the silence of his life.

"I hate you for this, I didn't want them to know, and you knew that." But then she had reached up, pulling his big head down towards her and kissed his scarred cheek. "But I know why you did it, and maybe I won't hate you forever. You probably saved my life. One day, maybe I'll even thank you for it."

Then she was gone, boarding pass in hand, and all he had managed to do was stand there and watch. When her plane left the runaway, he heard himself whisper, "Be safe, Little Bird." He was ashamed to find his cheeks wet.

The white walls of the hallway stood around him as he scrubbed his face with his hand and sighed loudly, before steeling his resolve and gently pushing open the door. There sat Sansa Stark, eyes fixed on a morning talk show, spoon midway to her mouth with a dollop of cherry jello. She froze when she saw him, both staring at the other for a long moment. Before he had time to recover himself, the jello fell to the floor forgotten and she was out of the bed. A loud exhale forced its way from his chest as she barrelled into him and clung. On instinct, he caught her and took a few steps forward to keep her IV from being wrenched from her arm.

He was frozen, unsure, and confused as hell. Despite having her in his arms often when she was too weak to move, she had only purposefully hugged him on 3 different occasions (not that he was counting, because that would be weird...) She had kissed his cheek the one time at the airport, and that was all. Sandor realized his shirt was getting wet and leaned back far enough to see the top of her head. Her face was buried in his chest and she was shaking, very quiet sobs muffled into his skin. Sandor's eyes went wide and he made vague shushing sounds and fought not to toss her down and demand she tell him what the hell was going on. She clung to him like a fucking spider monkey, so tight that it almost hurt.

After a few more seconds he became aware that her hospital gown, while tied in the back, had hiked up the legs she currently had wrapped around his stomach and his hands were pressed against the bare underside of her thighs. Sandor could just feel the edge of her cotton underwear along his thumbs. He was also aware that she was not wearing a bra, as her soft, ample breasts were pressed directly up against his sternum. Knowing this would get real awkward real quick if she didn't move soon, he cleared his throat and grumbled something out, moving to set her on the bed and take a step back. The last thing he needed was to press a hard-on against a girl in the hospital who he hadn't seen in years. Sansa flushed lightly and looked away a little embarrassed. She busied herself with turning off the television and pulling the sheets up to rearrange them around her before turning to Sandor with a small shy smile.

"Sorry," she said quietly.

Sandor didn't know what he was supposed to say, so he settled for "Okay..." and then fell silent. He knew they'd have to talk about why he was listed as her emergency contact, why her family wasn't, and about Beag-Eòin. But not yet, not right away.

Sansa motioned for him to take a seat in the chair near the bed, so Sandor stepped around and sat, trying to settle comfortably in the slightly too small contraption. Once he was about as good as he was going to get, he finally looked at her, really looked at her, and he saw some signs of why she may be in the hospital, to begin with.

The right side of her face was slightly swollen, her lip split and a sizable but shallow cut along her cheekbone with jagged edges. She had dark circles under her eyes like she had not rest for some time. Her hair had been pulled into a sloppy top knot on her head, long blonde hair specked with blood. Nothing looked serious.

"What are they keeping you for?" he rasped out, voice even rougher than usual from exhaustion.

"Oh," she sighed lightly. "Um, there was a concussion. Just a mild one, but I guess I lost consciousness for a minute or two, so they wanted to be safe. Back of my head's tore up too, but wasn't deep enough for stitches."

She shrugged. "I told them there was no sexual assault this time, but I don't think they believed me because of these," she continued, holding up her wrists. He could now see how both wrists held matching fingerprint marks where someone grabbed her hard enough to bruise. Sandor felt something clawing in his chest and had to close his eyes for a moment to hear the voice of Ray, his therapist, telling him to breathe through the rage and not give in to the intoxication of righteous anger.

After he was calm, he managed to open his eyes again. "What do you mean 'this time'? Has this *Blaigeard attacked you before?"

Sansa wouldn't meet his eyes, staring at her lap, but she nodded.

"And he's...hurt you before, Aye?"

She nodded again and he clenched his fists.

"Fuck, tell me this bloke isn't your new boyfriend."

Sansa laughed sadly and glanced up at him. "Not anymore, hasn't been for some time. He can't seem to understand that though, and he doesn't like being told no. Ramsay keeps finding me. Now, I get to move all over again."

"How many times has the manky bastard done this by now?!?!" he growled, feeling all that good sense from therapy being drowned out by the bloodlust pumping through his veins.

This time she laughed for real. "Manky bastard? Gods, I've missed the sexy, growly Scottish cursing."

Sandor was shocked out his anger by the word 'sexy,' but now was not the time to address that so he just stared at her.

Sansa sighed. "This was my third move, now I'll have to gear up for move number four."

Sandor pinched the bridge of his nose and frowned. "Alright, so, now he knows where you were living? Did the police pick him up yet?"

Sansa shook her head and laughed bitterly. "No, and they won't either."

"What do you...why the fuck not?" Sandor growled out with menace.

"He's Ramsay BOLTON. Son of Roose BOLTON, which he neglected to share until after we'd been together too long for me to extricate myself from his business dealings."

"Bolton, like the drug lord Bolton?" Sandor asked incredulously.

"The very same," she deadpanned. "Stark is a powerful name when it comes to the courts, but Bolton has more money and dirty cops than the gods. It never even gets to the courts when it comes to Ramsay."

She flushed and looked down at her lap. "He told me he was called Ramsay Snow. You'd think after Joff I'd be able to spot a lie, right? But Ramsay, he makes Joff look like a puppy."

For fuck's sake, she was like the blood in the water to all the sharks in the world. He wondered if she'd ever be safe. He wished he could keep her safe somehow, but he knew part of that was selfish. Part of him just wanted to have her for his own.

"Why me?" he asked.

Sansa cleared her throat and looked away. "Sandor, I'm really sorry that you had to come all the way out here. If I had been conscious, I..."

"Why aren't your kin in your phone?" he asked. Sansa said nothing, pointedly not looking at him.

"They even know you're here?"

Still nothing. Now Sandor was starting to get majorly annoyed.

"That's fine. I'll just step outside and give Judge Stark a call. It'll be like old times, aye?" He stood up quickly and moved towards the door.

"Wait! Sandor, I...Oh fine, just sit back down." Sansa crossed her arms and huffed. He had to stifle a chuckle, and for the first time in awhile, he saw just a hint of that girl she used to be, so many years ago. Sandor sat back down and leaned forward on his knees.

"Well?"

Sansa bit her lip and he could see her thinking, trying to decide exactly what to say. When she finally spoke, it was very quietly, and he had to lean forward to hear it.

"When I told Ramsay I no longer wished to be with him, he was very clear that was not an option. He's not a loving man, not even prideful like Joffrey, but he is a possessive one. When I walked away from him anyway, he started to show up everywhere. Where I went for coffee in the mornings, he was there. Where I went to the grocery, there. The bank, there. The dog park, there. But finally, when all that wasn't getting my attention, he started showing up outside Brann's school or at Arya's volleyball games. One day, Rickon disappeared for a few hours after school. When he finally came home, he was unharmed but he told us that Ramsay had taken him for ice cream and to an arcade. Rickon handed me a letter, and it basically told me that while he preferred my company above all, my little brother made for a 'lovely companion' as a second choice."

Sansa shivered and Sandor felt his stomach turn. "Dad was irate, he took Rickon to the police station, drug me along too. I told him that they were on Bolton's payroll, but he wouldn't listen. Of course, no charges were brought and we were informed the matter was closed."

She finally turned to look at him, her eyes betraying her pain. "Please Sandor, I couldn't go back to him, but I couldn't let him hurt my family. So I emptied the rest of my college savings, which was still substantial with the money my grandfather had set aside for each of the grandchildren, and I disappeared."

Sandor swallowed heavily. "And they aren't listed in your phone because..."

She nodded sadly, "Because I no longer speak to them. They know I'm safe, or at least I was when I first left, but they have no idea where I am now."

Before he could ask his next question, the doctor came in with a wide smile.

"Ms. Beag-Eòin," he said, skimming over her chart. "Let's see the back of your head now, need to check on that bump and hopefully get you home, right?"

Sansa smiled weakly at the doctor, not meeting his nor Sandor's eye. "Home would be nice."

An hour and lots of discharge instructions later, Sandor hefted the hospital bag on his shoulder as the little bird slid into the passenger seat of his rental. She was wearing his shirt, since hers had been soaked in blood (head wounds always did bleed like a bitch) and he was trying really fucking hard not to think about other situations where she could be wearing his over-sized clothing. After shoving the bag into the hatch of the SUV, he settled into his own seat and stared out the windshield.

"Where are you going to now?"

Sansa closed her eyes for a minute, and he thought she might cry, but she took a deep steadying breath and opened them again. "I need to go to my apartment, pick up a few things I can't leave behind. Then...well, you can just drop me at the Greyhound station and I won't be your problem anymore." Sandor grunted irritably.

"I asked where you're going, not where you needed a ride to," he grumbled. She turned and fixed him with a glare.

"I don't know yet, I have to see where the buses are headed," she snapped, irritably.

He growled and dug the heel of his palm into his eye until he saw stars. No sleep, a shitty plane ride, and he had taken all the shit from her he was prepared to take at the moment. He wheeled on her, glaring right back.

"*Am pure done in, little girl," he snarled. As his temper rose, his accent became more pronounced and he slipped into using gaelic slang, but he was too pissed off to care. "And I've had about enough of your lip. I got a text message in the middle of the fucking night from your neighbor who can't spell worth a shit. They tell me you're going by Sansa fucking Beag-Eòin now, and what the bloody hell am I supposed to think of that? I'm the only emergency contact you got, you're on the run from your asshole ex-boyfriend, and your fake last name is 'little bird' in Old Scottish. Which you only know, because I told you what it was in my mother tongue. I get on a plane, pay out the arse for the last minute ticket, and come to you in the fucking hospital, even though I haven't heard from you IN YEARS. *So yer aff yer heid if you think I'm gonna just accept no explanation and play chauffeur for an hour or two before heading home and not hearing from you until you're in the bloody hospital again."

Sandor grit his teeth and rubbed his temples hard, eyes closed while he tried to take steadying breaths. He startled when he felt her hand move lightly on top of his thigh and gently squeeze.

"Sandor, I can't tell you where I'm going because I don't have anywhere to go," she told him with a determined look. "No place is better than another one, no one is waiting for me. You are listed in my phone for emergencies because you told me I could always call you and I don't have anyone else. And the last name I use is Beag-Eòin because I was running and scared when it came time to buy a new identity and I picked the name that would make me feel safest. I don't know why, it just felt right. Now I'll need a new one."

Sandor paused, but he'd already come all the way here, what was there to lose? He couldn't send her back to daddy this time. He couldn't just let Sansa go off on her own with no protection, not with a man who wanted to destroy her snapping at her heels.

“I could keep you safe,” Sandor told her. “No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them."

Sansa smiled so softly and closed her eyes. "Yes," she said quietly without even a moment's hesitation. She leaned across the console and used the barest pressure of one finger to turn his head towards her. "I'd like that very much."

So gently, she pressed soft lips to his. It was brief, over in a second, but it was somehow the most fucking beautiful thing Sandor had ever felt in his life. He stared at her for a few moments, before lightly shaking his head and turning back to the wheel. He put the car in gear and let her direct him to her apartment.


	2. Bide

A week had passed since Sandor had brought the Little Bird from an apartment in the slums of urban Florida to his home near Lexington, Kentucky. His house was a large, open plan converted barn in the rural town of Sadieville. The 10 acres of forested land and open fields backed up to Eagle Creek stream, and he had built a solitary and quiet life there. He did custom woodworking for a company ran out of Red River Gorge and overall, he liked things pretty well as they were, and he was good with absolutely nothing changing. 

Which is why bringing a beautiful fucking magnet for trouble into his sanctuary was a bad god damn idea if ever there was one.

But Sandor was not known for his good decision-making skills, which is why Sansa Stark/Beag-Eòin/whatever-came-next was currently humming "Part of your World" in his kitchen at 7am whilst flitting about and cooking eggs sunny side up, the smell of freshly ground and brewed coffee filling the air. He watched her silently, pretending to read his newspaper and trying to ignore how her hair caught the morning light or how her long, long legs went for miles before the hem of her sleep shirt hit her thigh. And somehow, he just couldn't find it in him to regret bringing this little bit of happiness into his world, for better or worse.

Sansa plopped a plate down in front of him with a grin before sitting on the other side of the breakfast nook and crossing those stunning legs. The sole of her foot ran up his calf as she sat and settled at his knee, leaving Sandor to sputter lightly into his coffee and pretend it had nothing to do with her.

"We need to go grocery shopping today," she told him with another smile. "Do you think we could go after you sort through your emails and such?"

He grunted his assent and scooped in a mouthful of ridiculously delicious eggs. He wasn't sure how she seasoned things, but Sansa had developed into a remarkable cook.

"I've been making a menu," she said after a gulp of sweetened coffee. "Is there anything in particular you'd like for dinner? I'd really like to make your favorite."

He eyed her with bemusement. "Why?"

She startled and blinked. "Why not?"

"Why do you give a fuck about making my favorite?" He asked, amused. He was fairly confident no one had cooked something specifically for him in...well, ever.

She looked at him as if he had grown another head. "Because..." she sputtered, seeming to struggle to answer. "Well, because...I mean, you took me in, for one thing. For another, I came with very little money and I can't very well work until I get a new last name. I want to contribute somehow. It just seemed like the...um, normal thing to ask? I..." she huffed irritably. "Just tell me what your favorite food is, alright?"

Sandor shook his head but answered her anyway. "Pot roast."

"With...?"

"...Mashed potatoes and country greens." 

"And...what sort of dessert? Any preference on pie?"

Sandor sighed and set down his fork, "You don't have to make me a pie, Little Bird."

Her head lightly cracked into the table as she slumped forward and groaned. "I know I don't have-...Just pick a damn pie flavor."

He bit back a laugh and took a sip of coffee instead. "...Apple..."

She shot him a strained smile before writing it all down on the menu she was filling out. "Lovely."

10 hours later, stuffed completely full of roast and pie, Sandor had to admit: Dinner was amazing.

\---

Sansa liked to wander his land, surrounded by his pack of rescues. Coming from an abusive childhood with a shitty family, Sandor was a sucker for any animal that was big and ugly. Never was he more thankful for them than when Sansa came to stay with him because she seemed to find a bit of peace knowing they surrounded the house. He knew it was a long time since she felt safe, but between him and the mutts, she seemed to finally feel at least a little secure.

Sandor had cared for the beasts, but mainly he allowed them to keep to themselves. They were their own unit, and it never occurred to him to name any but his first, the only one who was really 'his.' Stranger was a dark-colored Bull Mastiff, and while part of the pack, he was somewhat aloof as well. He stayed mostly at Sandor's side. By the time Sansa had been there but a few days, all the dogs had names and within a few more, all the dogs seemed to know said names. Or maybe they just knew that when she yelled something, treats would be forthcoming so they came anyway. Either way, she was good with animals, he noticed, especially those who had been desperately mistreated.

The Great Pyrenees twins, Ghost and Lady, were her constant shadows and companions. They were also the pups with the worst background story and remained shy even to Sandor after 3 years. But with Sansa, they seemed completely at ease. He often cursed at how underfoot they were, but then Sansa would smile warmly at them and run her hand through one or the other's fur and that would shut him right up. The Rottweiler she named Shaggydog, and like Stranger, he maintained his distance and only watched his packmates and the Little Bird from afar. Greywind was a mix, mostly Staffordshire Bull Terrier, and for all his ferocious looks, he was putty in her hands. Nymeria, the proud Akita, was loyal and fiercely protective of her pack, in which she seemed to include Sandor and Sansa as equal members. Last was Summer, a mix of Rhodesian ridgeback and mastiff. Suddenly the group of dogs who had prowled all 10 acres of his property were never far from wherever Sansa was, following her around like lovesick puppies and Sandor begrudgingly admitted he understood the feeling. 

It was another week after his personal favorite dinner night when he woke early and found his kitchen, while set up with the usual eggs and coffee, was absent one Little Bird. Sandor really did not want to explore why that bothered him so much, why he'd rather have her than the food in her usual spot, and he ate his breakfast with a slight sense of unease. The last place he expected to find her was his workshop.

The Sansa he had known so many years ago was seemingly no longer in many ways, one of the most noticeable being how she dressed and the way she presented herself. When he had first met her, she had worn almost exclusively flowery sundresses and cardigans. She flitted about in ballet flats and wore the same headbands a 5-year-old would, her face painted with glitter eyeshadow and bubblegum pink lip gloss. By the time she and Joffrey were through, it was all skinny jeans, leather, and fuck me heels. Dark kohl rimmed eyes and red pouty lips that would send any man into a fit of lust, but which also succeeded in making her look completely unapproachable. Honestly, he knew more about fashion just from listening to her go on and on about it when she was hiding from Joffrey than a guy who bought his jeans at Walmart had any right understanding.

The woman before him today, currently running her hand along an almost finished 2 person rocking chair, was not either of those girls. For a time, Sandor thought maybe she simply was sore from the ordeal before the hospital, but that wasn't the case. Sansa stood with her back to him wearing what she had nearly every other day, thick knit leggings hugging her hips and a simple unhooded sweatshirt draped loosely over her upper body. Today, the sweatshirt was light pink, but he had seen various t-shirts and sweatshirts of various colors, all fairly plain with the exception of a few nonsense logos. Her hair was pulled into what must be a signature messy bun atop her head and her face was scrubbed clean. When they went out, she sometimes applied mascara and lightly tinted chapstick, but that was all. Other than the fact that he missed her red hair in ways that would be unsettling if he allowed himself to examine them too closely, Sandor was confident this was the single most beautiful version of Sansa he had ever had the pleasure to know.

"What are you doing in here, *Eòin?" he asked her gruffly, crossing his arms to lean on the door frame.

Sansa jumped before smiling at him sheepishly. "I was just wandering, but...your work, it's really very beautiful."

He felt himself blush and grunted something vaguely resembling a thanks before he moved to his workbench and began rearranging things that absolutely needed no rearranging, pointedly ignoring her. If Sansa minded, she didn't say so.

"I'll see you for dinner," he heard her chirp behind him as she left. "I'm making cornish game hens. 6 o'clock alright?"

"Fine," he grumbled. He let a deep breath out when he finally heard the door click shut behind him.

And so it was every day. Sansa made breakfast at 7, every morning. No matter how Sandor tried to convince her it wasn't her job to cook for him, she did it all the same, stating it was something she could do to thank him, help him. He refused to admit how much he loved that, having her taking care of him in a way no one had ever bothered with. Lunch was always something cold, sandwiches or a chilled stew, left in the fridge for whenever he got to it. During the day, Sandor worked and Sansa did a million different things. Walks with the pack were a daily ritual. She cleaned and baked, but she also knit, read, and wrote stories. Sometimes she did yoga and he was fairly certain downward dog was invented simply to torture all red-blooded men everywhere. She wandered into his workspace, organized his cds, rearranged his closets, and just generally injected herself into every aspect of his life and home and gods damn him, but he liked it. Dinner every night was a sit-down affair, and while he rarely spoke, she was more than capable of filling the silence. She even fished with him on the weekends, though she was quite adorably squirmy and helpless when it came to baiting the hook.

Slowly, over the course of 2 months, Sandor settled into this new reality and stopped second guessing it. He stopped waiting to wake up and find it a fever dream. He stopped watching her face for any sign of the ill ease or fright she had once regarded him with. He even forgot to huff and complain so loudly, because he was finding himself too content to get worked up about things about which he would usually be bothered.

So when someone spray painted the word "WHORE" on the side of his garage, maybe he shouldn't have been taken off guard, but he was. He was also curious how in the fuck whoever wrote it had gotten onto his property without being eaten until he realized Sansa had all the dogs confined to the living room and was attempting to "groom" everyone with only minor success. This garage was more than a mile away from the main house, and the pack had been locked up. He got to work scrubbing it off before Sansa could find it, but he was only halfway through when she rode up on the four-wheeler she had borrowed/stole from him a month ago, all smiles and windblown hair until she saw what he was doing. When her smile fell into pain before quickly shifting to blankness, he almost looked down at his chest to make sure no one had actually sliced it open.

"Sansa," he started hoarsely, but when she raised her eyes to his, he didn't know what to say so he simply stared at her.

Tears fell quietly down her cheeks and she made no effort to stop them. "How does he always find me?" She looked down at Lady, who had placed her head on Sansa's knee, and cut back a sob. "I let myself forget he was out there, I got too comfortable."

She sighed and looked across the treeline wistfully. "I...I know you owe me nothing, but-...could I ask a favor?"

Eager to make her feel even the slightest bit better, Sandor nodded sharply before clearing his throat. "Anything, Little Bird."

She smiled at him, heartbroken and beautiful. "Do you think I could take Ghost or Lady with me? Maybe even both, so they won't be lonely? When I go, I mean. I know they're yours and I wouldn't normally ask such a thing, but-"

He felt something akin to panic begin to claw its way up his throat before he was beside her in 3 strides, clinging her shoulders as if they alone anchored her to this world. "You aren't going ANYWHERE. You AREN'T leaving. Why would you think you were leaving?!?!"

Sansa looked at him incredulously. "He's found me, Sandor! It's only a matter of time before he comes for me. No one else would care whether you had a 'whore' here or not! I have to run, I have to get a new name, I have to GO."

He snarled, releasing her as if her skin was scalding, fighting the pain and anger fighting for dominance in him. "Don't be stupid, Little Girl. You can't keep this up, one day he is going to catch you and kill you or worse, hold you prisoner and keep you. Surely you know that!"

Sansa said nothing, only stared at his boots and he felt fresh rage course through him. 

"You do, you fucking do know that!" he spat. "And you're going to run from the safest place for you, even knowing it. Why? Tell me why!."

Her head fell to her hands and suddenly she seemed so very small and fragile, brittle as though if he touched her she would crumble to nothing but dust. Her voice was so quiet the wind almost carried it away, but what she said left him unable to do anything but gape at her, all words and air lost to him.

"I'm as good as dead, it's true. But maybe if I go, he'll chase me, and you'll be safe."

\---

Sansa Stark had been only a child when she had looked at Joffrey's golden hair and winning smile and thought that all women should be so lucky as to find their own prince charming. The girl who thought those things, however, was long dead, leaving behind a woman who had suffered too much and been loved too little. Sandor knocked on Sansa's door that night, determined to keep his head better and make her hear him, make her understand.

'I'm as good as dead...' she had told him. Fuck that shit.

When she didn't answer, Sandor carefully pushed the door open. Sansa sat on her bed, staring out her window at the rain lashing the glass. Storms were common and often brutal in Kentucky, sweeping in and drenching everything in torrents before leaving just as quick.

"I've always loved thunderstorms," Sansa said, turning to him with a sad smile. "They're especially beautiful here, though I'm not sure why. Everything is more beautiful here."

Unfortunately, Sandor was unable to say much of anything. Instead, he just gaped at her and what she had wrapped around her shoulders. Sansa fixed him with a confused stare. "What is it, Sandor?"

Sandor swallowed, cleared his throat, and swallowed again. "You kept it," he managed to croak.

She looked down at her covering, as if just now realizing what she was cuddled up in. "Of course I did. It was yours."

"My grandmother made it," he told her absently. "I thought it was lost, after that night."

"Oh," Sansa said, rubbing her cheek against the quilt he had wrapped her in the very last time Joff beat her. "Come here then."

In a daze, Sandor walked over and sat heavily in front of her on the bed. He quickly snapped out of it, however, when she climbed into his lap. Sansa straddled his thighs and wrapped her arms around his neck, bringing the quilt with her so now they were both wrapped in a cocoon of fabric.

"*Eòin," he whispered. "Why did you keep it?"

She brought her forehead to rest against his. "Because it made me feel safe and cared for," she murmured. "Naming myself Beag-Eòin, your quilt, your number in my phone: Safe. Wanted. I knew if I called, you'd come. You were always there, even though you weren't."

"Then stay," he begged hoarsely. "Stay, Little Bird."

"Give me a reason to stay," she whispered back.

So he kissed her. Sandor pressed his lips to hers and tried to pour all of his reasons into the action, tried to tell her how much he needed her, wanted her, LOVED her. Things he may never say out loud, but that were true all the same. And as if all the kindness and softness he had ever been denied would now be repaid tenfold, she kissed him back. He tried to maintain a small level of distance in his heart, but he couldn't deny that her kiss was just as tender and meaningful as his. He brought his hands up to cup her cheeks and run his thumbs along those high, beautiful cheekbones.

"Stay," he asked again as he pulled back ever so slightly.

Sansa kissed his temple, then his nose, skimming her lips over his jaw before planting a final, chaste kiss on the corner of his mouth.

"Alright," she answered quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eòin - Bird


	3. Bleed

Morning brought sunshine and the smell of coconut shampoo creeping into Sandor's senses slowly. He blinked bleary eyes glancing around before he realized his nose was buried in silky blonde hair. Both he and the Little Bird were still fully clothed and wrapped together in the quilt they had been cuddled in the night before. Her back was pulled to his chest and his body was curled around her protectively. Sandor inhaled deeply and tried not to move around so as not to wake her. He craved for this moment to last far longer than he had any right to hope for.

His only thought when a dog (sounded like Ghost) started howling 20 minutes later, startling Sansa awake and thoroughly ruining his morning, was how he was going to turn that dog into a rug. He growled into her hair and pulled her tighter to him before he heard her giggle.

"He's just lonely, Sandor," she told him, patting his arm. He growled even louder when she slipped out from underneath his arm and danced across the room before he could pull her back down.

She stretched in front of the window and heaved a deep sigh. Crossing to the door, Sansa stuck her head out and then looked back at him with a little grin. "You are aware it's 9:30 am on a Tuesday, right?"

Sandor ripped the blanket back and jumped to his feet. "Caochan, fuck, son of a bitch...!" 

She sidestepped out of his way, laughing loudly as he ran down the stairs and made quickly for his office. It's not as if there was anything that had to be done at a specific time, but he really did not like being behind on things, it just made for more fucking work later. 

20 minutes later, Sansa walked in with a tray and a smile, setting breakfast and coffee down next to his workstation. "Thanks Eòin," he said absentmindedly, reading quickly through an email about a new order for a porch swing.

He was just at the part about how the customer preferred a cherry stain when the Little Bird's fingers were in his hair and her soft lips were pressed against his. He groaned into her mouth before quickly turning and pulling her into his chest. She smiled against his lips and nipped at his mouth, forcing another embarrassing sound from him. It was hard to have pride when the woman you had wanted desperately for 4 years was devouring you.

Gently, Sansa pulled back and planted one more kiss on his cheek. She giggled and whispered in his ear, "Let's finish this tonight, Sandor."

"Aye Lass," he grumbled, both irritated and amused. "You best believe we will."

He watched her flit back out the door and tried to bring his focus back to work. Eventually, he was able to immerse himself in the demands of his business and when he looked up again, it was 1:46 in the afternoon and he was starving. He stood up and stretched before making his way to the kitchen, listening for sounds of where she might be. The house was silent, which wasn't unusual, but when he got to the fridge and nothing was waiting for him, he began to feel a little uneasy. It wasn't that he minded making his own lunch of course, but she hadn't missed a day the entire time she was here, so where was she?

Sandor walked to the porch, his unease becoming greater by the minute. "Little Bird?" he called.

When no one answered, he whistled for the pack and waited, but the only sound in the overcast world outside was the wind gently shaking the trees. Thinking of the graffiti yesterday, Sandor quickly walked back inside to the safe and grabbed a handgun along with his hunting knife. On rare occasions, Sansa had taken his truck and gone to town for one thing or another, although she always asked before going. Walking to the garage, he checked just in case and after verifying the truck was still where he left it, he climbed onto the older four-wheeler and started towards the nearest building. 10 acres would take a long time to cover, but hopefully, she was at one of her favorite spots or the pack would be walking with her and hear him before barking out an alert. 

Hours passed, and he was no closer to finding her than he was when he left for lunch. All of the outbuildings that he knew she frequented had been checked over, and that left only one place he knew of to look before he'd have to call somebody (who that would be he had no fucking idea): Eagle Creek. There was a little dock with oak chairs he crafted himself that sat overlooking the water. A small table for bait and beer sat between the two seats. It was there that he spent his weekends with Sansa.

Sandor was a mile out when he was assaulted by the sound of a dog howling. All the blood drained from his face as he accelerated quickly, moving as quickly as he dared towards the dock. The mutt he had heard was Shaggydog, who met him part way there and tried to race ahead as if to lead him. It was only minutes but it felt like hours before he reached the dock. He slammed the four-wheeler into park and almost fell from the vehicle in his haste to move towards the scene before him. 

The pack and bodies were scattered in the clearing, but he had eyes only for Sansa. She sat against the back of one of the chairs. One of her knees was bent in front of her, pulled tightly to her chest, while her other leg was extended straight in front of her. Her hair tumbled down out of its bun around her, and her sandals lay a few feet from her with the leather strapped off one of them. Her t-shirt had been removed leaving her in her camisole, and Sandor suspected she would be shivering if not for the 2 enormous Great Pyrenees flanking her on either side. A long gash rose on her left leg leaving her leggings were torn around the wound and stiffened with the dried blood from it. Her forearms and the smooth skin of her face were marred with shallow scratches. Upon reaching her, Sandor sank to his knees to see her better and grimaced when he saw that her right ankle was black and swollen.

Sansa's face was pale but determined. "I'm quite alright, Sandor." Briefly, her eyes flickered around her and a small smile twitched onto her lips. "Though I can't say the same for them..."

Assured the Little Bird was safe, Sandor rose to his full height and growled at the surroundings. To his right, Nymeria circled a man who clutched at his calf. The leg was wrapped and a tourniquet had been made using Sansa's shirt and a stick. He had his eyes closed and his breathing was shallow, though he flinched every time Nymeria growled at him. The shirt was soaked through with blood and the man was pale. Nymeria's muzzle was painted in blood, as was Ghost's. One man lay dead and near unrecognizable with an assortment of wounds but strangely, the wound that caused his death appeared to be a gunshot wound to the back of the head. Another lay near him with similar wounds, but appeared to be only unconscious and still be breathing. Sitting against a tree to his left sat an enormous man who looked largely unharmed, though Greywind stood near him and eyed him closely. Summer circled around the still living men, agitated, and seemingly unable to sit still. Lastly, Stranger had a man pinned to the ground by his throat, a classic bull mastiff move to incapacitate. Shaggydog had returned to the clearing and he lay down by the man's head, growling softly at him.

Sandor turned back to Sansa for a moment, trying to control the urge to rip every single man apart with his bare hands. "Eòin. Which one is Ramsay?"

A wet laugh filled the air, followed by a slightly strangled sound.

She pointed to the man between Stranger's jaw. "That's Ramsay." Then she flicked her eyes to the large man by Greywind. "That man refused to help him, Sandor, and he killed that one there. I don't know why, but he refused to hurt me."

He turned and narrowed his eyes at the man by the tree before walking towards him. Greywind rose silently and came to stand at Sandor's side as he looked down at the seated man. "Who the fuck are you and why are you here?"

"Hired by the prick," the man told him, indicating Ramsay. "I ain't nobody, just an independent contractor."

"A shit one at that"! shouted Ramsay from his precarious position beneath the Bull Mastiff.

"Aye," Sandor spat out at him. "And what is it you were contracted to do exactly?"

The man laughed, but there was no mirth in it. "The boy there said it was to 'secure an asset.' Traded on the Bolton name, you know? Then we get here and he wants help hunting down a girl with no combat skills who maybe weighs 130lbs soakin' wet? Fuck that. I kill men and people who know what they signed up for. NOT little girls who pricks like him can't let go just cause she don't want to suck his dick no more. And not her loyal mutts neither."

He laughed again and shook his head. "I ain't gonna punish the girl for havin' the good sense to leave him."

Sandor ground his teeth together and considered the man's words for a long moment. "And why'd you shoot that one?"

The man's eyes blackened and his face twisted into a grimace. "Because that corpse DID want to hurt little girls and was gettin' ready to shoot the white one with the bloody muzzle over there. Seemed to me the mutt's life was worth more."

"Where's your gun now then?"

The man shrugged. "Holster."

Sandor's face scrunched up in confusion. "Then why the bloody hell are you still here?"

"I already told you, I don't kill loyal mutts for just nothin' and these beasts of yours weren't about to let me leave just cause I wanted to."

Sandor sighed and scrubbed his hand over his face. He didn't have time for this, he still had to figure out whether Ramsay was leaving with the cops or the coroner. Considering what Sansa had told him about the authorities, it seemed like a dumb fucking call to let him leave alive. But he also didn't want Sansa to be scarred any further or have to witness anything else. Maybe he could get her on the four wheeler and off to the house. It was obvious why she couldn't walk for help earlier, with her ankle twisted and bruised as it was, but with the vehicle...

He was brought out of his thoughts by Sansa's hand on his arm. He hadn't even heard her limp over here. "I want to speak to him," she told him, pointing towards Ramsay. 

The man on the ground snorted, "Little Lady, that's a shitty idea if ever-"

"I did not ask you," she interrupted coldly. Sansa took a step forward, still holding onto Sandor's arm. "Give me your gun."

Ramsay's laughter echoed through the clearing, his voice coming out strangled and wet. "Mide as well. What the fuck is she gonna do with it?"

Ignoring his deranged employer, the man chuckled, looking at her incredulously. "Fuck no."

Her gaze did not waver as she called out, "Ghost, Nymeria: To me."

The great beasts came to her side and when Sansa pointed at him, they started snarling. 

The man stopped smiling and narrowed his eyes, menace flickering in his gaze. "I helped you, girl."

She nodded. "And so you shall leave this clearing with your throat very much intact, which is more than I can say for any of these other gentlemen. But first, you will give me your gun. Then you may leave."

Sandor stood with his mouth hanging open, wondering who the fuck this Sansa was. Cold and quiet, but with vicious intent and quiet fury. Perhaps he needn't have worried about scaring her.

The man growled and snarled but reached behind him to the small of his back and pulled his gun out. He handed it to Sansa before he stood and spat at the ground. "Am I dismissed now, princess?"

A small smile twitched at the corner of Sansa's mouth. "You are. Ghost, Nymeria: Heel, to me."

With a mock salute, the man faded into the shadows and Sansa turned to the stunned man at her side. "Sandor, can you bring him up here please?"

Taking a deep breath, Sandor tried to calm himself. "Gonnae no’ dae that till you listen. Eòin, I'll bring him. But give me the gun first."

Sansa raised a solitary eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"Fuck, Little Bird, you can't honestly think I'd let you kill him and carry that shit for the rest of your life."

"It's my kill, Sandor," she replied firmly.

"And just when did you join the bloody mafia, lass? 'My kill.' Seven Hells, Sansa, you don't know what you're asking." He rubbed his hand up and down his face and sighed in exasperation. He took two steps towards her and looked down at her defiant, stunning blue eyes.

Ramsay's voice rang out again but Stranger must have tightened his jaw because what came out was a strangled moan. Good dog.

"Eòin, tell it honest and true," he pleaded, lifting her head in his hands so he could meet her eye. "Have I ever asked you for a damn thing?"

Sansa's eyebrows scrunched together and she reached up to cup his hand with one of her own. "Of course not, Sandor."

"And I've done everything you've ever asked of me, except keepin' the sadistic bastard's secret," he reminded her, hating to even have to use this. "So I'm askin' for one thing only. You want him dead? Aye, Lass, he'll die all right. What's a bit more blood on dirtied hands? But keep yours pure and clean. Please, Little Bird, I'm begging you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonnae no’ dae that - I'm gonna go ahead and not do that


	4. Grown

Sansa met his gaze and looked at him for a long moment. He wondered if she'd deny him this. He couldn't contradict, if anyone deserved to kill the man, it was her. She closed her eyes and took a few deep breathes before they snapped open. She pinned him with a determined look.

"You don't want me to dirty my hands, and I refuse to allow you sully yours again after you have worked so hard to get them clean," she said quietly. She glanced at the man who Nymeria had been guarding and grabbed Sandor's arm. "Fine, no gun. Take me over there, please."

Sandor quirked an eyebrow, but nodded and did as he was told. He was too busy being bloody relieved she wasn't going to shoot anyone to be curious. Once they arrived in front of the man, Sansa let go of his arm and stood staring down at the man on the ground.

"Nymeria, to me," she said quietly. Nymeria trotted over and stood between Sansa and the wounded man, obviously not willing to leave her crippled packmate unguarded. Sandor grinned wryly at the little beast.

"Who are you?" Sansa asked firmly.

The man opened his eyes and glared up at her. "Umber," he grit out.

"And, Mr. Umber, would you like to provide all the details of your highly illegal dealings with Ramsay, probably in exchange for leniency of your own crimes?" She paused as if to give him time to consider. "Or, shall I remove that tourniquet I used to save your life and allow you to bleed out here, with none the wiser before I contact any police force?"

"The police won't do shit unless I back up your story," Umber practically spat out.

"True," Sansa agreed. "But you'll still be dead. Somebody is paying for these crimes and Sandor won't let me shoot anyone, so I suppose I'll take what I can get. Will you be the one to lose, or will Snow?"

Umber was clearly furious and ready to spit fucking nails, but he knew a lost battle when he saw it. His shoulders slumped and he gave a non-committal nod. 

"Good," she said with a smile. "Sandor, I'm going to sit down here with Mr. Umber and Nymeria and we are going to have a little recorded chat. See, I had your phone with me when I was attacked and Mr. Umber was so repentant and distraught at his crimes, that he begged me to record his testimony in case he never made it to court as we waited desperately to be found. While the signal here is atrocious and I couldn't call for help, I was able to do that at least. Now, he may claim later that it was coerced, but as I am 100 pounds lighter, weaponless, and was kind enough to save his life, I don't think anyone will believe that account. Of course, they'll likely want him to go on the stand for Ramsay's case, but for his own, well...this would be entirely permissible."

Sansa looked to Umber, her face carefully blanked. "Then, I'm going to call my father, Eddard Stark. And he is going to use his favors and connections to bring Federal charges for Ramsay, instead of the State. See, I've never caught him, not like this. But now that I have him pinned down for once, and since his harassment and violence has crossed state lines, it can be a federal issue. Think Bolton had the government in his pocket? I doubt it. He's rich, but not that rich."

Umber was pale. He had obviously thought he would worm his way out of this one. As for Sandor, he was fucking blown away by the teeth on his Little Bird. Bloody hell.

With a snarl, Umber twisted his face. "Fine. Fuck it."

Sandor snorted.

Sansa smiled.

\---

It was 3 days later, Judge Stark would be arriving at CVG airport in 20 minutes, and all Sandor could fucking think about was eggs.

It wasn't that he didn't sleep better knowing Ramsay was in a federal holding cell; he did. It wasn't that he begrudged Eddard Stark immediately flying out to see his daughter; he didn't. It wasn't even having his home invaded by the Little Bird's father and eldest brother; he wasn't bloody thrilled, but he'd deal with it. 

It was losing his mornings with Sansa. Sandor didn't want to wake up without the sweet chirp of Disney songs sounding in his kitchen. He needed her to sit down across from him and drink coffee that was more milk and sugar than anything else. He had to hear her humming while she read a trashy romance novel, craved to pretend he was reading his newspaper while she wiggled to her own tune. At a MINIMUM, her foot ran up his calf three times a week and no matter how gods damned pathetic it was, he hoped each time that it would happen again. 

There was also the fact that she had slept next to him for four nights in a row, her strawberry shampoo now clinging to his pillows. And fishing in companionable silence. Dinner talking about their god damn day, so fucking domestic it should be anything but as pleasant as it was. 

And since he couldn't cope with the very real prospect of Sansa Stark going home with 'Father', he focused on how he never learned to cook eggs. He had always had pop tarts. And he knew even if he learned to cook 'em, they wouldn't be as good as hers. Anything from a diner would just seem off. So for fuck's sake, it seemed he'd never have another egg in his life once she left him alone and wasn't that just the bloody sort of thing that was always happening to him.

"They're here!" said Sansa, jumping up from the couch and hobbling along to the door after her phone had beeped. The doctor had fit her with one of those giant, boot things. It was amusing that the dogs were in turns fascinated and terrified of it, except Greywind, who seemed to believe it was the devil himself at ALL times. 

Sandor sighed (she was supposed to be resting her severely sprained ankle) before gently pushing her back to her seat on the couch, ignoring her protests. Once he had her sitting again, he gave her a look that he hoped communicated not to fuck with him at the moment, before he returned to the door and opened it.

Now, Sandor had never met Eddard or Robb "The Young Wolf" Stark before, although he had talked to both when he had been orchestrating Sansa's escape from the Baratheons. Robb and Sansa looked a bit alike, but he could see nothing of Eddard in Sansa. Keeping his hand on the gun at his back, Sandor held up a hand before either could speak. 

He stepped ever so slightly to the right so Sansa could see past him. "This them, Eòin?"

"Yes, oh yes! It's really them."

He gave them a wry grin before stepping aside. "We did have a bunch of kidnappers bloody up the land here a few days ago. Gotta be careful."

The elder Stark nodded. "Of course," he agreed before sweeping past Sandor and almost running to Sansa's chair. "Sweetpea! Oh, thank the seven."

"Hi Dad," she whispered with tears in her eyes as he hugged her fiercely.

Robb knelt by the couch and propped his forehead on the arm of it. "Sans," he said almost reverently. "We've missed you so."

"I know, Robb," she tried to say, voice cracking with emotion, "I know."

Sandor had the distinct impression he was intruding on something private, so he made the decision to remove himself to his workshop and give the family some space. 

\---

He had managed to get distracted enough to get something done until 96 minutes later when the yelling began. He debated ignoring it, but then he caught a hitch in Sansa's voice as if she was close to tears, and that made his decision for him. He returned to the living room to be greeted with two obviously angry Starks and one quietly angry Stark.

Robb was pacing in front of the fireplace, in the middle of explaining loudly how now was not the time for stubbornness and Sansa needed support and help to get her life back together. Sansa was slowly attempting to poison him with her glare alone, never mind the tears threatening to fall any moment, and their father sat with his fists clenched nodding slightly in agreement with his son.

"-been years since you've been back, how can you even consider doing anything else?!?!" Robb continued to monologue as if he was giving an impassioned speech to a crowd. "You need a stable place to build from, support, psychiatric care, financial aid- all of this would be available in Winterfell!"

"You aren't listening to me, Robb," she replied, hurt evident in her voice. "I do not need to be under constant supervision nor to never be alone for as long as I live. You're being ridiculous! I have survived years without anyone else, how can you honestly think I'm too weak to stand on my own feet?"

Robb went to her chair and bent down to her level taking her hands. "Sansa, it's OKAY to be weak once in a while. Come home, sweet sister. Let us take care of you. Heal you."

Eddard finally spoke up. "He's right, sweetpea. You need to come home and we can sort out everything else later. We'll send for your things, our flight leaves in the morning, and then you'll be back home where you belong. We'll fix what's broken."

Sandor ground his teeth and tried to keep his mouth firmly shut. How could they treat her this way, after all she'd survived? If anyone could make it on her own, it was Sansa. He had expected them to offer, sure, and he had expected her to WANT to go. But to imply she had to because she was somehow incapable, somehow less than because of her experiences; that was just fucking wrong. Her shit had made her bigger, not smaller. And Sandor had every intention of telling them so, right up to the point where Sansa stood up quickly, face white with fury, and voice deadly calm. Her eyes were so icy Sandor had to repress a shiver.

"It has been 1 and a half years since I've been home, it's true. When I came home from Joffrey, you all treated me as if I was made of glass. It was fair then, I suppose. I was young, I didn't know what I was doing or how to survive. But then came Ramsay, and I ran because I had to, kept running for the same reason." She stared her brother down, positively seething. "I was absolutely lost, bloody useless. NOT ANYMORE. I learned everything from how to do the laundry to taking self-defense classes at the local precinct. I made connections with several dangerous people to secure new identities as needed. I lived in places where the crime rate was so high, there were 5 locks on my door and bars on my windows."

She pointed a finger at her father now, switching opponents and equally scathing. "Do you think I used the college money so I could continue my life? No! I used it for the expenses I couldn't cover: moving costs, passports, fabricated work history. I worked 2 full-time jobs just to keep afloat and I did it, all by myself, while running from a psychopath. I had no friends, no safety net, NOTHING. So do not presume to tell me I NEED anyone's help, that I can't take care of myself, that I need fixing. I WILL decide when and if I go to therapy. I WILL decide where I live. I WILL decide who I associate with, work with, spend my time with."

Sansa took a deep breath and sat back down on the couch quietly. "I am not the Sansa Stark you knew, I am not your 'sweetpea' nor your 'sweet sister,' and I will not be bullied into making myself that small again to make you comfortable. If you want to get to know who I am now, I would like that. If not, you should go home."

The two Starks looked at her, gobsmacked, and Sandor fought hard to bite back his smirk.

Judge Stark stood then and looked to his daughter. "Swee-...Sansa. I am sorry to have upset you. I do not agree with your decision, but you have given me much to consider. I acknowledge that you are, legally, an adult. I cannot force you onto that plane."

Robb turned on his father. "The hell we ca-!"

"We won't," he cut off his son, teeth grinding. He turned back to his daughter then and continued. "I hope you will reconsider your options carefully. If you still choose to not come home...I will respect your decision and do my best to insist the rest of our family does the same."

Robb crossed his arms and huffed, but he seemed to accept defeat, at least temporarily. He looked back and forth between Sandor and his sister, before narrowing his eyes slightly. "Are you two...together?"

If only Sandor knew the answer to that. He figured even if the answer was yes, she'd want him to say no. He had a record, after all, and she was a Stark. Before he could comment, however, Sansa cut him off again.

"Yes, Robb. We are." She smiled at him and his heart swelled in his chest. He was the fucking grinch, apparently.

Robb huffed again and glanced at his father with an exasperated look. Surprisingly, the good Judge was attempting to hide a smile. "It seems we have much to learn about our Sansa, son." Eddard shrugged.

Turning his attention back to Sansa, he walked towards her and gently hugged her. "I'm sorry this has been such a trying day, sweetp-...Sansa."

Sansa flushed prettily and Sandor chuckled. "You can call me that," she said sheepishly. "I was just trying to make a point."

Eddard smiled and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I know," he said softly before stepping back and letting Robb hug her.

"I love you, Little Sister," Robb mumbled into her shoulder. "No matter what."

"I love you too," she answered with teary eyes.

The two Stark men moved towards the door. Before they walked out, Eddard turned back one more. "We'll be at the 'Bee's and Bear's Bed and Breakfast' till the morning, then we fly out. You know, the holidays are coming up. Please...consider coming home and seeing everyone." He gestured towards his host. "Feel free to bring Sandor as well."

Sansa nodded. "I'll think about it, Dad."

And with a final nod, the Starks were gone.


	5. Live

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Epilogue

Sandor closed the door behind him, clutching the large envelope in his fist. 'About damn time,' he thought as he walked into the kitchen and set the package down. He pulled a beer from the fridge and popped the top before leaning back against the counter. The pack was out roaming the grounds and only Stranger lay in the corner of the living room, eyeing his owner. A glance at the clock on the stove told him it was 4 o'clock. His Little Bird would be home any minute.

After everything came to a head with Ramsay a little over a year ago, time simply passed in Sadieville. Sansa never asked if she could stay and Sandor never told her she could, but some things didn't need to be said. The guest bedroom had long been empty and the master now contained skin creams and lacy undergarments. Aye, as near as he figured, it was a pretty fucking good life. He walked towards the living room, beer in hand, and opened the drawer to the side table for the 15th time today. He reached into the drawer momentarily, sighed, and shut it again. 'Not long now,' he reminded himself.

Sansa, for her part, was doing well and recovering, slowly and steadily. She has spent 6 months working through thrice-weekly therapy sessions until the beginning of the spring semester. She now was taking courses at the University of Kentucky part-time and working a few days a week as a teacher's assistant to the kindergarten class at the local elementary school. Sandor would snicker every time she came home splashed with finger paint or with cheerios in her hair, but he was also relieved to see the light in her eyes had returned over time and she laughed, louder and more often than ever before. Thank the gods she had washed that blond shit out of her hair and she was back to silky, red waves. Paired with the sexy librarian thing she had going on special school days, it made Sandor lose his bloody mind and want to take her right then and there.

Not that there had been any way he could do something that dominant, not yet. Sandor slumped down onto the couch with a contented sigh and took another long swig of his beer. It was going to take a long, very long time for Sansa to feel comfortable with sex again. He wanted her every which way he could get her (gods, but he wanted her,) but if ever there was a woman worth waiting for, it was Sansa Stark. In the meantime, he got to bury his head in her hair all night long, kiss her until she giggled deliciously and made those sounds that made his heart swoop, and (he remembered smugly) engage in quite a few carefully planned explicit activities that were extremely mutually satisfying nonetheless. 

Gravel crunched outside as Sansa pulled up the long driveway to their home, causing Sandor to stand and stretch before making his way towards the front door. All the calm he'd been relishing flew out of him and he cursed softly under his breath. By the seven hells, he was bloody NERVOUS, like a lad not yet ten years! He growled his frustration but took a deep breath and opened the door so she could flit inside.

Sansa grinned and dropped her purse, before reaching up and kissing him firmly on the lips. He stooped to meet her, bringing his hands to circle her hips as she rest her own on his shoulders.

"Welcome back Eòin," he murmured against her lips.

She giggled, dropping another kiss to his mouth before gently pulling away. "Mmmm, Mo Chridhe, I missed you today."

"Is that right?" Sandor teased, following her into the house.

She flashed a pretty smile over her shoulder as she approached the kitchen before going to the freezer and pulling out a bottle of iced wine. "Yes, Love. Like you wouldn't believe."

She reached over her head and pulled a glass down while Sandor leaned himself against the opposite counter and crossed his arms and legs, watching her move gracefully through the kitchen.

"You would not BELIEVE the behavior of that Breamon kid!" she told him, her little nose wrinkling in disdain. "He called Debbie Samson a 'bitch face' because she wouldn't let him use Arthur's sparkly markers."

She took a deep drink of her wine, turning to face him again. "Honestly, what do these parents teach their children anymore?"

Sandor smirked at her. "I don't know, Little Bird. Those youngsters these days..." He shrugged with a teasing grin.

"Oh ha ha," she rolled her eyes. She took another drink before looking to the counter next to him and spotting the envelope. 

"What's this?" she asked curiously, turning it over gently and setting her glass down.

He shook his head. "I didn't open it, they delivered it to the door. It's gotta be about Ramsay's case."

Sansa nodded distractedly before taking the envelope and gently ripping the top off. When Sandor saw how her hands shook, he stepped behind her and pulled her back into the warm expanse of his chest. He knew she liked this, felt safe when she felt his broad body against her, around her, shielding her. She melted back into him with a sigh, before continuing and removing the first class delivered missive from the envelope. Time passed really bloody slowly as he let her read, closing his eyes against the temptation of reading what it said himself over her shoulder instead of waiting for her to tell him.

Finally, he felt her turn into his arms. Looking down, her pretty blue eyes were shining lightly with tears and a few escaped down her cheeks, but she was shining and smiling. One of his thick fingers rose to brush away the drops.

"He took the plea," she told him hoarsely. "Ramsay finally settled terms and took the plea."

"And what'd the scunner get, then?" He asked, pulling a strand of stunning auburn hair out of her face.

Sansa glanced back down at the paper. "All told? He's got 30 years, to run CONSECUTIVELY, and parole doesn't become possible till 13 are served at least."

Sandor bit back a frustrated sigh. 'He deserves worse,' he thought. If he had known how bad it was, a year ago; if he'd known how much that little cunt did, he'd had shot him in the fucking face and had done with it. 'But now...' he realized as he gazed at his Little Bird's face, all that mattered was that she got to live her damn life. She didn't want to go to trial, and now she wouldn't have to. Justice always had a cost; it was never perfect. But this, it would be enough. It had to be.

He cupped her face and kissed her, just because he could, before he leaned back and smiled. "Well, I suppose you'll be wanting to celebrate then. How would you feel about stuffed pizza from that place you love that is way to fucking expensive?"

Sansa's eyes lit up and she squirmed in restless excitement. "Spinach and Mushroom?" she asked suspiciously.

He bit back a grimace. He bloody hated mushrooms. "Yep."

Her wide smile was worth it. "Hell yes!" she squealed and ran off to pull her phone from her bag to call it in.

\---

5 hours, one disgusting pizza, and 2 embarrassingly sound defeats of Scrabble later, Sansa lounged on the couch in Sandor's arms and purred like a content cat as he stroked her head.

'This is it,' Sandor told himself. He took a deep breath and braced himself. He reached behind him and pulled the contents of the drawer out, setting it next to him on the couch. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. 'Fuck, fuck...I can't do it...' he thought helplessly.

A few heartbeats passed before finally, Sandor managed to make his mouth work. "How long's it been since you had to get a new name, Eòin?" he blurted out.

Sansa turned to him over her shoulder, looking bemused. "Hmmmm...2 and a half years I suppose. Beag-Eòin was the last one I needed and I never did manage to get a new one once we came here. What's this all about?" She tilted her head and gave him a small grin.

"Ever thought it's about time for a new name?" he rasped, clearing his throat.

Her brows furrowed and she puckered her pretty, perfect lips. "I don't understand, Mo Chridhe..."

He swallowed hard and closed his eyes, before opening them once more to meet hers. He picked up the box sat next to him and brought his arms around her, holding it in front of her chest and bringing her attention back there. He felt her gasp against his chest. He leaned forward and murmured in her ear. 

"How would you feel about becoming Sansa Clegane?"

He flipped the box open to reveal a 3/4 carat ruby, round cut, set in a rose gold band. Shining, rough cut black diamonds surrounded the center stone. Sansa was the ruby, he told her, deep, beautiful, and elegant. He was the black diamonds, broke into pieces and dark, but stronger than any other and arranged around the center to always be a buffer, to protect.

Sansa swallowed hard and with shaking fingers, ran the delicate pad of her thumb over the stones.

"I would be honored to be Sansa Clegane."

**Author's Note:**

> *Scottish Slang:  
> Caochan: Sheep Shit  
> Blaigeard: Bastard  
> Am pure done in: I’m feeling very tired  
> So yer aff yer heid: You’re off your head – a little bit daft


End file.
